


Discard Pile

by Thiswillonlyhurtalittle



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Five Times, I still love Captain Janeway, Multi, Music, No Plot/Plotless, Pop Culture, Ringtones, Sharon/Brenda/Andy, Star Trek References, Why Did I Write This?, maybe some serious fics too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thiswillonlyhurtalittle/pseuds/Thiswillonlyhurtalittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random collection of one-offs. Most are plotless, silly things and some actually have something resembling a point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unapologetic Bitch/ She's So Cold

**Author's Note:**

> These stories have been accumulating in my head and on my Mac. I wasn't going to post them but, ya know, these women talk at me now when I can't sleep. And unsurprisingly, Brenda and Sharon both get real friggin' bitchy when they think someone's ignoring them.

* * *

 

Sharon can't find her phone. She and Brenda are having lunch and Sharon keeps hearing it beep with new messages, but then she starts to look and she just can't find it.

"I know it's in here," Sharon mutters angrily. "I can _hear_ it." This is just infuriating. She has a purse with a variety of pockets precisely so she can find everything, but really she just spends a good chunk of her life searching through compartments.

Brenda - surprisingly enough - doesn't make any snarky comments while Sharon pulls out lipstick liners, a compact, her wallet, and several parking stubs. And maybe Brenda doesn't pipe up because she's too busy devouring her lunch, but it's also possible Brenda feels sympathy for Sharon's plight. Knows what it is to spend one's life searching for things, coming up empty-handed.

"I'll just call it," Brenda says eventually. When the beeps have stopped and Sharon's game of Marco Polo has become a futile, one-sided endeavor.

"Would you," Sharon sighs. "Please?" And so Brenda digs through her own mess of a purse, pulling out her phone remarkably quickly.

When the music first rings out Sharon doesn't recognize it immediately as her own phone. Thinks maybe someone in the next booth is receiving a call at the exact same time. Glares at their shitty taste in music and the unnecessarily vulgar ringtone. But then Sharon realizes after a few seconds that the cursing female voice is coming from _her_ purse and that shitty, bass-heavy dance music is coming from _her_ phone, the people around them starting to look at her disapprovingly.

Sharon starts to dig faster, becoming increasingly frantic.

“I don’t. . . What _on earth_ ,” she says, and realizes now that Brenda is glaring at her. Because Brenda knows Sharon’s usual ringtone and this isn’t it. It’s the pleasant melody that rang out as Andy Flynn called her at the beginning of lunch, when Morales phoned in the car with a thirty-second update Sharon had requested.

And when Sharon finally finds her phone, putting a stop to the embarrassing music, she doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to apologize because she has no idea how that ringtone got on her phone in the first place.

“Unapologetic bitch, huh?” Brenda says, arms crossed now.

“I didn’t give you that ringtone,” Sharon shakes her head. “Brenda, _I didn’t._ ” But she stops panicking when she sees the way Brenda’s eyes crinkle a tiny bit. Realizes that Brenda isn’t actually angry, only bluffing.

Hard to get angry at her for that, given the circumstances.

“I can’t even begin to fathom who changed my ringtone,” Sharon says. Scrolls through her other contacts but doesn’t see any alterations besides Brenda’s new theme music. "It looks like you were the only contact that was altered."

“Rusty?” Brenda guesses. And it’s a thought, but Sharon knows Rusty would never risk embarrassing her in front of people. Privately, sure. Yes. Of course. But never, ever out in public like this, let alone with the possibility of it happening when Sharon’s surrounded by colleagues or even bosses.

Sharon can exclude anyone from Major Crimes for the similar reasons - they’d just be too terrified even if they had poor enough judgment. Plus there’s the music choice itself, how young and -

“ _Ricky_ ,” Sharon hisses. Pissed as hell as soon as she puts it together.

“But he visited you weeks ago now,” Brenda points out.

“But this is probably the first time you’ve called me since then!” Sharon counters. “We mostly text each other and the rare times you phone me you’re typically calling from your office."

“I guess,” Brenda shrugs.

“I’m going to kill that kid,” Sharon tells her. Resists the urge to fire off an angry text immediately. Wants to wait and figure out a way to make her son slowly and painfully suffer.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Brenda smiles. Goes back to tearing into her lunch. “Truth in advertisin’ and all that.”

“A valid point,” Sharon laughs.

“Feel free to lecture him about musical taste though,” Brenda says. “I’m pretty sure there were some old classics that coulda expressed the same thesis with more aesthetic standin'.”

“I think that was actually Madonna,” Sharon frowns. Picks up her fork and goes back to eating her cobb salad.

“Not any Madonna I know,” Brenda mutters.

“Yeah,” Sharon sighs. “I think maybe I was probably more into Pat Benatar and Belinda Carlisle than I ever was Madonna.”

“Me too,” Brenda replies. And something about the way Brenda’s eyes shine mischievously when she says this makes Sharon freeze, her fork still in her mouth as Brenda smirks and smirks.

What exactly did Brenda think Sharon meant by that?

. . .

 

Sharon charges into Brenda's apartment without even knocking. It isn't unusual for her to just use her key and walk right in the door, but this time Sharon stomps in like she's on a mission, door slamming a little against the wall when she swings it open.

"What's wrong?" Brenda asks her, sitting up. She'd been taking a nap on the couch because it's just so hot in her bedroom. She looks at Sharon through bleary eyes, vaguely self-conscious that she's sweating through her tank top.

"I've been thinking," Sharon says, hands on her hips. Like this, somehow, is supposed to shed light on what the hell is going?

"Thinkin'?" Brenda demands, a little cross now. Because she's tired and hot, and why in the hell is Sharon coming in here, stomping and slamming?

"Classics, you said. Truth in advertising, you said." And then Sharon just stands there staring at Brenda like this is supposed to mean something to her, but Brenda is only more confused now and rapidly getting pissed off.

"In plain English, woman!" Brenda shouts at her. " _What are you talkin' about?_ "

"Ringtones," Sharon tells her. And then she holds her phone in both hands, pressing her thumb to it as she stares hard at Brenda.

It's, like, maybe a second before the Rolling Stones song starts echoing out from Brenda's small kitchen, Brenda having left her phone in there, and it's only by force of will that she holds Sharon's gaze as the refrain loops and loops again. Sharon standing there, hot and bothered, and calling her phone.

"I think we have some things to discuss," Sharon sighs when the music stops. Crosses her arms.

Brenda just flops back down on the couch and closes her eyes.

"Yeah," Brenda says. "Probably."

 

* * *

So I THINK this takes place in a universe very similar to, say, the middle of missparker's "Giving Up On Greener Grasses."  But it's a much dumber universe, where people do stupid shit that oddly relates to my current gym playlist. . .

 


	2. That Star Something Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because JANEWAY, people.

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s it?” Sharon demands as the credits roll.

"That's it," Brenda shrugs.

“So that Janeway woman and her ship are just stuck out there?”

“Apparently,” Brenda says. Because Brenda didn’t know anything about this series, still doesn’t know anything about the shows or the films that apparently came before and after it, but she’d searched this particular series on google and found a lot of pissed off people still complaining about the finale more than a decade after the fact. “I don’t think they get home until the end.”

“That’s so stupid,” Sharon hisses. Tosses the remote on the coffee table with a thud that reverberates against the wood. “And you just _know_ they’re going to do some inane will-they-won’t-they with the captain and the man with the tattoo.”

“Probably,” Brenda agrees. Because what could be more hellish for the woman than carting around a bunch of whiny people she’s saddled with keeping alive, no matter how many times they ask her  ‘are we there yet?’  Having to do all that work while wanting to jump the bones of the person sitting right next to her but who she probably can’t _actually_ screw, for hand-wavy ethical reasons- that’s what.

“And it’s a shame,” Sharon says, still sounding annoyed. “Because that pilot of hers was much cuter than the man with the tattoo.”

“Which one was the pilot?” Brenda asks Sharon. Because although the series opener was twice the length of a normal episode, Brenda spent most of that time staring at Sharon’s hair and Sharon’s  new burgundy nail polish and the itty bitty scar on Sharon’s pinky toe that Brenda’s never noticed before tonight.

“The blond one,” Sharon reminds her. “The brash one.”

“I dunno,” Brenda frowns. “That actor is about a decade younger than the actress playin’ the captain.”

“You’re right,” Sharon comments dryly. “What captain would possibly want a blond, mouthy lover who’s a decade younger than she is?” And Brenda freezes, Sharon giving her a mean smile when she concludes, “my mistake.”

Stupid show, Brenda now thinks churlishly.

Stupid David Gabriel and his weird science fiction hobbies. His ridiculous, overblown indignation at Brenda not knowing the franchise to which this show apparently belongs.

“Star _Trek_ ,” he’d corrected her a week ago and she’d been so confused as to his point.

“That’s what I said,” she hissed. “ _Star Track_.”

And then he’d given her the saddest, most disappointed face. So of course when he begged her to watch just one episode, she agreed.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Do you want to watch another episode?” Sharon squints at her.

“We just guessed the plot line of the whole series!” Brenda complains. “Why would we?”

“I want to find out if I’m wrong,” Sharon tells her, and grabs the remote up again.

“I can google it and just find out.”

“That’s cheating,” Sharon informs her, clicking away.  

“Cheatin’?” Brenda repeats.

“Come on,” Sharon says. “Just one more and then we’ll go to bed.”

“Sharon,” Brenda begins sternly. “We can watch one more episode but you have to promise this isn’t gonna be like _The Sopranos_ again.”  

Because Brenda lost a small chunk of her life to Sharon angrily pondering that finale. She lost a bit of sleep and a lot of sex,  all because Sharon discovered a show that had been off the air _for years_.

“Oh, that was different,” Sharon dismisses. “This is just a silly little science fiction show that I don’t even like.”

“If you say so,” Brenda mutters. “But just promise-”

“Shh,” Sharon smacks her knee. “Kathryn’s talking and I can’t hear her over your prattling.”

Brenda sinks deeper in the couch, arms crossed over her breasts. Spends the whole forty-three-minute episode thinking about how she’s going to kill David when she sees him.

 

. . .

 


	3. Sharin' Sharon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people are just too lazy for threesomes. And maybe too controlling. But mostly too lazy.

* * *

 

"Not like that," Brenda says, pushing Andy's hand away. "Like _this_."

It isn't like Brenda thinks Andy's bad at this, objectively. What he's doing and the way he's doing it has probably worked on dozens of women, would even work on Brenda herself. It's just that Brenda knows Sharon, and Sharon is never, ever going to get off like this. Not when there's so much movement, too much stimulation but not enough friction, Andy's fingers working way too fast.

The odd thing is that Sharon doesn't say anything. Doesn't agree or disagree. Doesn't pipe up when Andy goes back to struggling, trying to figure out how she likes to be touched. Failing miserably the whole time.

Brenda kisses Sharon through it, at first. Kisses Sharon sweetly when she opens her eyes and looks up at Brenda like she's suddenly scared they're about to break this thing between them. Uses teeth and tongue to coax Sharon along when her neck begins to strain from chasing something she can't reach. And Lord knows that Brenda wants to shove Andy out of the way entirely, show him what to do, but Sharon still says nothing and at some point Brenda can't take it anymore. There are too many limbs - entirely too many limbs - and Brenda keeps almost leaning on Sharon's hair, and then Brenda's back starts to ache from the weird angle she's been bent at.

It's too much. She hits her limit. Gets right up from the bed and stands naked, hands on her hips, the two of them now staring at her expectantly.

"I think I'm gonna go in the livin' room," Brenda announces, and Andy only nods, red faced. Still moving. Probably trying not to have a heart attack, at this point.

"You're leaving?" Sharon manages. Sounds hurt and maybe disappointed. But that's Sharon's problem, Brenda thinks, because she only did this for Sharon. And she doesn't mind sharin' Sharon with Andy this one time. Doesn't even mind a man who used to call her a bitch now being naked in her own bed. It's simply the inefficiency of it that she can't tolerate. Not when she already knows for certain that no one besides Andy is going to get off tonight, and there's still two packages of Reese's peanut butter cups tucked safely away in the door of her fridge.

Brenda goes down the hall, into the small, outdated apartment kitchen. Doesn't bother to turn on the lights. Opens the fridge right up and squints into the bright light until she spots the orange wrappers. Hops right up on the counter, bare butt pressed to cold tile. She tears into the first package and thinks about Sharon. Sharon and Andy. Wonders idly if it technically becomes cheating if Brenda's no longer part of the activities. Philosophizes for a few minutes about aborted threesomes and infidelity, legs dangling off the counter. Chocolate steadily disappearing.

It's not long before she hears a murmur of voices in the bedroom and then, a couple minutes later, the sound of the front door closing. And Brenda should really go check on Sharon, but she's sure Sharon's mad that she left the room. Wound up and frustrated, with no outlet left for that except Brenda. So she's stays put. Sees no reason to go looking for trouble when the trouble is sure to find her.

"Why did you leave?" Sharon demands, coming into the kitchen. She has a brown satin robe tied around her and no glasses. And she's squinting at Brenda because she can't see, but her no-glasses squint and her angry squint are pretty similar, so it's difficult for Brenda to gauge how much trouble she's actually in given that she's not wearing her glasses either. "My apologies if we _bored_ you."

So that's a fair amount of trouble, then.

"I wasn't bored," Brenda sighs. "I just. . ."

" _What_ ?" Sharon pushes. Sounds hurt as much as she does angry now. And Brenda sits there swinging her legs for a moment. Twists the empty candy wrappers in her fingers. 

"Why are you bossy with me durin' sex? Why with me but not with Andy?"

Brenda isn't sure what she expect Sharon to say. Watches as her expression softens, Sharon coming close enough for Brenda's knees to graze smooth satin.

"Brenda. You're the only one I've ever been that. . .  direct with." And that's crushing for Brenda to hear. Maybe not entirely unexpected, given Sharon's history, but nevertheless sad to hear out loud.

It also doesn't entirely answer Brenda's question.

"But Sharon," Brenda whispers. Runs one hand up Sharon's arm and slips the other into her robe. "Why with _me_ ?"

"Because I can," Sharon shrugs. "Because you care and won't get offended. I know you won't stop and sit up. Glare at me like I'm a bitch."

"Oh, honey. I glare at you all the time for bein' a bitch. But not for you barkin' orders during sex, no."

"I don't _bark orders_ ," Sharon shoots back.

"You kind of do," Brenda smirks.

"And you like it," Sharon points out. Sounds a bit mystified as she shakes her head, "I guess we both have issues, Brenda Leigh."

"Yeah," Brenda drawls. "I didn't need a failed threesome to tell you that. But if you did, that's fine. Not everyone's as fast as I am at puttin' together facts." 

 Sharon pulls her down from the counter hard. Kisses the smug look off her face.

. . .


	4. Crawling All The Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Brenda leaves Fritz. (Whoops! Guess I'm sneakin' a serious one in here!)

* * *

_And I've had enough, it's obvious._  
_And I'm getting tired of crawling all the way._  
_Crawling all the way._

"Which Witch" - Florence + the Machine

* * *

 

I. 

The bottle he throws smashes against the wall. And God help her, but Brenda _smiles_. Waves her hand absently at the broken glass as she says, "I'm real glad I got to see this." Looks at Fritz's angry face and only tips her head. "I'm thinkin' the rage suits you a little too well."

She walks out of Fritz's place without a second thought, feeling relieved when she clicks the door closed behind her. Feeling strangely free, like maybe she dodged a bullet. Missed out on a lifetime of living with a passive-aggressive man who clings to his sobriety with the bloody tips of fingernails. Complains about the way Brenda leaves dishes in the sink to make himself feel better about the way he has to struggle. 

. . . 

II. 

"I want to get married, Brenda," Fritz tells her pointedly. "I've made that clear for a long time now." 

"You ain't the only around here who's made yourself clear," Brenda hisses back. 

"I'm tired of this!" he shouts. "I'm tired of playing house, and cleaning up after to you, and feeling like you don't love me enough to put my ring on your goddamned finger." 

"So stop cleainin' up after to me," Brenda says. Pointedly dumps her sweater onto a chair. "Stop doin' all of that, if that's how you feel."

"But _I love you_ ," Fritz throws his hands open. Except the declaration only sounds angry. Everything he says these days just comes out as angry or hurt. 

"So please do us both a favor," Brenda pinches her nose, "and _stop._ " 

"Stop talking about this?" Fritz ask. Picks her sweater up in a jerky, rage-filled motion.

"No," Brenda corrects. Grabs the sweater out of his hands and cringes when she hears something rip. " _Stop lovin' me_." She throws the sweater back down. "Really. I don't think my cardigans can take any more of your affection."

. . . 

III. 

"Agent Howard came by," Provenza tells her, and Brenda studiously refuses to look up from the piece of paper she isn't reading. "You shouldn't ignore him, Chief."

"Is that so?" Brenda asks him. Gives him her very best glare, over her glasses. 

"It only riles them up more," Provenza explains, not at all phased. 

"Them?" Brenda asks. Sure she's going to regret it. 

"Exes," he supplies. "I learned that rule the hard way. After my first ex-wife."

"We never got married, Lieutenant," Brenda reminds him. 

"And for that I do congratulate you, Chief." Offers her a big smile. 

Sounds like he genuinely means it and isn't just be a smartass, so Brenda smiles right back when he gives her a wink. 

. . . 

IV. 

"I can give you a number," Sharon says without preamble. Clears her throat and goes back to stirring her tea. "If you need a divorce lawyer."

"The one you used?" Brenda asks. Should be upset by Raydor's presumptuousness, and kind of is, but even then Brenda really could use the rec. 

"I'm- Well, I'm still not divorced from Jack yet." And when Brenda's eyes go wide at the admission, Sharon looks back down at the steam coming out of her paper cup. "But I've done a fair bit of research as to who'd I'd like to use. When the time comes."

"Research," Brenda repeats, and gives Sharon a predatory smile as she pays for both of their drinks. "I guess you could say I've been doin' research too."

She doesn't give Sharon the chance to say anything else before she walks away from where Sharon still stands. Hips maybe swinging a bit more than usual as she goes. 

. . . 

V. 

"Please tell me this is about an undercover operation," Fritz says, holding up Brenda's iPhone to her face. "Please tell me the LAPD needed help and somehow, for some reason, needed _you_ to do it." He takes a deep breath, continuing with a blank face, "please tell me that this is why Sharon Raydor is sending you texts like _this_ one."

"Would you like to read the rest of her messages and find out?" Brenda asks him, unfazed. Because this has been a long time coming. Years of them barely being roommates. Less than congenial roommates, who never touch and rarely speak. 

"Get out," Fritz tells her. "Leave and never come back." 

She gladly does. Scoops up Joel and only grabs her purse because almost everything else she needs is at Sharon's anyway. Has no regrets about leaving Fritz with a dirty litter box and no cat; a duplex that has spotless counters and a pristine bathroom sink because it hasn't been Brenda's home for a while. 

Never really was, now that she thinks about it. Pets Joel's fuzzy head at a stoplight and wonders what Sharon's making for dinner. 

. . . 

 


	5. No wings, no halos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brenda gets a new job. Other things stay the same.

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
_A new empire beckons, a new kingdom in the distance._  
_No gods are present - just the sky, the earth, and us._  
_No wings, no halos, nor the thunder in the footsteps_  
_'cause fear and anger, they are law unto themselves._

 

-Snow Patrol, "The Weight of Love"

* * *

 

Brenda unpacks the last box. Pats herself on the back for getting everything done the first day. Nothing like the weeks and weeks it took her, the last two times she did this.

It's strange to think she's a cop again; difficult to process that any city would offer her a badge and a gun again. Stranger still that the offer came from a city a mere two-hour drive from Los Angeles and the localized infamy of the Johnson Rule. But Brenda doesn't waste much time wondering about the oddities of fortune. Just dumps out a big bag of red gel pens into a drawer. Feels grateful that her escape from both the DA's office and her failing marriage came wrapped up in an offer to head (of all things) an IA division.

She knows she has her work cut out for her. San Diego might be a whiter, richer city than Los Angeles, but its police force is still startlingly white and overwhelmingly male. Fewer public embarrassments to incite systemic change via lawsuit and a heap more money available to PR those embarrassments away.

She spends the whole first day reading the multitude of sexual harassment complaints that have been filed against San Diego's finest, just in the last six months. The stack is so thick, she ends up taking half of them home with her when she leaves for the day.

"You'll be real sad to know I wore a floral skirt today," Brenda confides into her phone that night, a glass of wine sitting next to her.

"Of course you did," Sharon replies, sounding put upon.

"My plan today was just to play pretty and quiet until I figure everyone out," Brenda says. She isn't a fool. She knows the department wanted to put a new, female face on their reorganization of IA. A cop-friendly, rule-bending female face who will look good on paper while providing zero actual scrutiny.

"You, quiet?" Sharon teases.

"Why are we friends?" Brenda clucks. "I forget now..."

"Because you need my professional advice," Sharon retorts, "and I'm just using you for your new, beach-adjacent condo."

"Rude," Brenda says, but laughs anyway. Smiles big when she hears Sharon's laughter on the other end, too.

"So," Sharon sobers. "How bad is it? Worse than what you expected?"

"Bad," Brenda sighs. "Downright disgustin' actually."

"You wanted to get your hands dirty," Sharon reminds her.

"They'd happily pay my salary even if I didn't do a lick of real work," Brenda says, and feels a familiar righteous anger bloom within her chest. "They'd just love it if I never looked under one single rug. Stayed in my office, pushin' papers all day."

"They would," Sharon confirms immediately. "They'd probably even give you a raise."

"Probably," Brenda grouses. Bites at the jagged nail hanging off her left pinky.

"How long are you going to play dumb?" Sharon asks her. Uses that low, throaty tone that she reserves for scheming. Scheming and dress shopping.

"Not sure," Brenda admits, feeling at loose ends now. "Maybe a few months?"

"You'll feel it out," Sharon reassures. Must be doing dishes because Brenda can hear the sound of running water and then the clinking of glass and metal.

"Hm," Brenda dodges. Because she isn't sure if she can actually do this well. Isn't sure she'll ever be good enough, strong enough to be another police department's Captain Raydor.

"Hey now," Sharon lectures her.  "You are Brenda Leigh Johnson and you will do _exactly_ what you've always done. Which, if history serves, is _whatever the fuck_ you want."

"That so?" Brenda smirks. Bites the nail of another finger.

"That is so," Sharon decrees. Says something to Rusty that Brenda can't quite catch.

"You wanna come visit the beach-adjacent condo this weekend? You and Rusty?"

"Rusty has plans, I think," Sharon tells her. "But barring an unexpected dead body or two, I'm in."

"I'd ask you in advance not to criticize my decoratin', but there's no point in that I s'pose."

"Oh, you can ask," Sharon says primly, and Brenda rolls her eyes.

Because Sharon is still Sharon, and she does whatever she wants.

. . .

 

 


End file.
